


Nice to Meet You

by 20BlueBoy19



Series: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: (yay!), Darla doesn't die, First work - Freeform, Fluff, Game Dialogue, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by The Road, M/M, Other, Skinny Malone fight, Spoilers for Fallout 4, but c'mon guys it's been years, first time doing drugs, i can't figure out how to indent paragraphs so bear with me guys, i wrote this to combat depression so don't make fun of all this fluff, mostly - Freeform, oldie refrences, tin can nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20BlueBoy19/pseuds/20BlueBoy19
Summary: “Ah, my knight-in-shining-armor. But the question is, why does he come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye?”Private eye. Detective. Now the pieces clicked together. Except for the pale grey skin, wires, and metal hand Saylor noticed when his eyes adjusted to the light.“What… are you?”





	1. Chapter 1

Saylor shook awake, breathing cool air from his nose peeking above the blanket. The wind whistled through the holes in the old house. Other than that it was eerily silent. He felt his feet around the bottom of the bedroll until they found their way inside his thick slippers.  
Making his way out of the room and down the stairs, he gazed at the walls and the pictures loosely hung about them. Abstract shapes and lines on dirty white backgrounds. He huffed and ran his fingers along the wall, collecting dirt on his finger pads, as he descended the stairs.  
The kitchen was new for when it was put in, sleek white cabinets and nice, if not faded and damaged, grey rugs filled with interlocking red circles. He drew a knife from his waist and cut out two small rectangles, stuffing them in his pockets as he meandered to the brewer.  
He opened the shelves above the machine. No cocoa. He finally found what he was looking for in the cabinets below, almost hidden beneath messy rows of silver silverware. Pulling out a mug from his backpack (his son painted the background. His wife had written ‘world’s #1 dad’ with silver paint.) and placing it under the machine, he poured water into the top of it and emptied the packet of coca into the mug under it. He put the other cocoa packs in a plastic bag and threw them in his backpack.  
As the water heated and poured into the cup, he walked up the stairs again and grabbed his bedroll, rolling it up into a tight cylinder and securing it with straps to the bottom of his backpack. A rumble from his stomach reminded him of how hungry he was. He picked up his backpack and carried it downstairs, where is cocoa sat waiting.  
Saylor grabbed a spoon and stirred the powder into his water, blowing on it while he checked through the pantry. On the shelves the only still edible things were preserved peaches, sugary (and probably stale) cereal, and maybe that large dead bug, but he never did learn how to cook and, anyway, the thought of gutting a giant fly almost made him throw up last night’s dinner.  
There was a can opener already out and he munched on the peaches and cereal while he drank his cocoa, watching the sun rise over the gray setting. The pinks and oranges reflected into the brown lake, and it actually did look pretty. Until he saw a large ripple in the water.  
The leaves sang quietly with every small breeze. The air was still cold. It might be getting close to winter. _How long has it been since last Christmas_ , he wondered. _Do people even celebrate it anymore? Are there people to celebrate it?_


	2. 2

He got farther into the city that day. Houses and buildings were becoming more congested, the many roads partially blocked up by crumbling debris. Saylor kept his gun at the ready, forty rounds without reloading if anyone didn’t like his existence and felt like trying to end it. Posters still stuck to old structures reminded him of before. Toys, culture, even gas stations filled him with nostalgia.  
He looked through the windows of cars, groping his hand around, praying that someone before him might have been the slightest bit hurried and might not have picked up everything of value. He ended up finding ten rounds, but for three different types of guns, none his own.  
In one of the passenger seats his hand accidentally brushed against a dry skeleton, which crumbled into dust. Geez, did people get any calcium back in the day? He sneezed as tiny flecks of powder floated through the air and up his nose. The stone and metal buildings just echoed the noise. Saylor hoped no one heard. This place was so quiet, any sound he made magnified tenfold. Even his footsteps as he continued on seemed thundering.  
Saylor made it to a small pond in a park and sat down on a bench. Exhaled and looked around. He remembered getting a hat here. He rifled through his backpack and found the hat along with a small bag of crushed berries that he snacked on while he reminisced. He looked at the faded jean fabric, blue on the bill and faded orange on the, what was it called, ... _head_ (?) of the cap.  
He remembered that day. He was out with his wife. They got snow cones because it was the hottest summer day that year. He got raspberry and she got tropical flavored. They sat in the grass over, ...there, he turned to look, following the dirt path until he reached a secluded corner of the park. They sat under the tall willow tree, watching golden rays of sunlight fall through the blooming purple flowers covering its leaves. They talked and ate and she put her arm around his waist and he put his legs over hers. Then…  
He didn't like to think about what happened next. It made him feel bad to remember. It made him feel… like he wasn’t trying hard enough.  
His radio suddenly bloomed to life as a song played that was louder than the others before it. It was still quiet and staticy, but he heard faint words. He was getting closer.  
Staying here was making him feel sick. It made him remember too much. Too many bad thoughts. He sat back on the bench he was at before. He took off his left boot and took one of the carpet squares out of his pocket, placing it in the bottom. Then he did it to the other boot. Much warmer.  
He was bored and emotionally drained. Trying to think about not thinking, he mindlessly threw rocks into the pond, seeing the surface of the water ripple without really watching. He always wanted to ride the swan that now sat in the middle of the water. But he and Nora never really got around to it. _No, don’t think about that. Don’t say her name._  
The water rippled when he didn’t throw a rock. He stopped thinking and froze, turning his neck to look. The swan rose out of the water. An ugly face emerged, connected to it.  
Connecting the dots in his head once the eyes of the face blinked, he inwardly cursed himself and slid off the side of the smooth metal bench, taking a step to steady himself and then sprinting forward. He didn’t know where he was going and the thought to take out his gun didn’t occur to him. Saylor ran and ran, booming steps following him and making the cement road beneath his feet bounce. He spun his head, saw a subway station, and ran for the doors, fumbling with the handles. His body shivered when he heard the swan-thing roar. He flung them open-- it took his entire body’s force to do so, the adrenaline in his system making him strong enough to break the chains that crossed in an X around the handles on the indoors, keeping them closed.  
Quickly stepping into the dark station, he wildly scoured the room for anywhere to hide. A counter. He jumped over the top of it and hid behind the countertop, watching out a small bullet hole at the doors. His eyes shut and his jaw clenched jarringly when he heard the swan descending the stairs into the station.  
It wasn’t quiet, but it didn’t sound like the monster was moving much. Tentatively opening his eyes, Saylor looked through the eye-sized hole and saw that the orc-looking creature was literally too large to fit through the entryway. He exhaled a sigh of relief and clutched the strap around his torso, finally getting out his gun.  
The swan-ogre thrashed and roared when he stood up, and Saylor was so scared his legs almost failed to hold him up. He clutched the corner of the counter with one hand, staring the creature in the eyes. He took three steps backward, making his way to a hallway deeper inside the station, but the monster disagreed with his actions and flailed his arm into the lobby room. He was using a boat – a fucking _boat_ \- as a _gauntlet_. The boat was sharpened at the point and covered in splinters and blood and viscera.  
_FrickFrikFrikcing **HECK**_  
Maintaining shaky eye contact with the creature, he stepped again backwards and over a small pile of broken Nuka-Cola soda bottles. The swan looked at the ground between them and then back to Saylor as if measuring the distance. He seemed to decide it wasn’t worth the effort and walked off, dragging the boat behind him and leaving a red trail in his wake.  
He made it past the passageway and, once he was in a small utility closet, he shifted his belt until his… _special_ … pocket was in arm’s reach. He pulled out a container of jet, clutching the red inhaler and breathing in the manure and drugs. He knew what was in it, and it genuinely disgusted him, but, hey, jello was pretty gross too and people still ate that.  
The world went by slowly as he briskly continued on, not sure where he was going. He thought he remembered taking this subway when he and… his wife… would come to the park, but with all of the rubble and falling architecture he couldn’t quite tell where he was.  
The place was eerily empty. Until he walked right into a curtain of tin cans. Tin cans?  
Shots fired on every side in front of him, hitting the cans he was behind and one shot getting in his arm.  
_Today is not my lucky day_ , he thought, as a blinding white light of oncoming pain went through his vision and he had one second to think before the searing agony came.  
He screamed his voice raw in less than a second. It didn’t even sound human, more like a higher pitched version of the swan-thing’s howling. He fell to his knees onto the ground and grabbed what he thought was a stimpack, instead injecting phsycho right into the wound. Never having done it before, the rage drug affected him strongly and he yelled again, only out of vigor and not pain this time.  
_WOW **WOW** EVERytHING ISSOFAST AND NOTHinG HURTSAND MY ARM FEELS LIKE ITS lIKEON FLIPPING S **STeroIODS** AND NOTHING HURTSSB UT IM REALLY **ANGRY** IM GonNA I WANN PUNCH EVERYTHING LOok AT THAT HAT I wanT IT IMMA JUST TAKE IT oFF THAT GuyS HEAD WHOOPS YOURNECK SNaPPED TOobAD BROTHEROR sisTER OR OTHER I CAN’T REALLY SEE THAT WELL BUT I DON’T JUDGE ,You DO YOU, HaVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR LIfE WOAH MY ARMS ARE SUCH A **PRETTY** RED—_  
It didn’t occur to him exactly what the red was. But the red was so pretty. It just… called to him. Saylor stopped in the hallway and just looked at it, rubbing it around in swirls. It got all over his hands. It reminded him of a joke.  
_HEYheY What’S Red AND SMElLSL LIKE bluE PAINT_  
 ** _RED PAinT_**  
 _HAHAHA_  
He didn’t really notice it for a while, but the gigantic door saying ‘Vault 114’ might have been a _slight_ indication that he entered a vault. But Saylor just continued on, laughing to funny jokes and thoughts in his head and leaving a beautiful red trail behind him.  
And then all of a sudden it wore off.  
No warning. No gradual shift. One second he was a crazy laughing bloody mess and the second he was a confused bloody mess. He glanced past the area he was in and saw a… vault overseer’s office? When the hell did he enter vault? How long was he roaming around, high on some drug that made him thirst for blood –which, by the way, stunk. A lot. Very heavy smell. It filled his nose with a sensation that could only be described like the blinding sensation you get if you looked into the Sun for five hours and then poured salt and lemon juice on your eyes, only with his nose. And with blood, not sunlight. Bad analogy.  
He looked at his hands and would have vomited had he not heard the voice from ahead of him. Some ruffian triggerman talking to someone trapped inside the overseer’s office.  
“How you doing in there Valentine? Feeling hungry? Want a snack?”  
A voice that seemed to instantly transport Saylor into a noir detective movie spoke gruffly. “Keep talking, meat head. It'll give Skinny Malone more time to think about how he's going to bump you off.”  
“Don't give me that crap, Valentine. You know nothin'. You got nothin'.”  
Saylor could almost see the smirk as the trapped man continued. “Really? I saw him writing your name down in that black book of his. "Lousy cheating card shark" I think were his exact words. Then he struck the name across three times.”  
That seemed to mess with the triggerman. He hesitated, mumbling to himself for a few seconds before answering tentatively in a weak voice, “Three strikes? In the black book? But I never... Oh no... I gotta smoothe this over! Fast!”  
The triggerman ran out of the small compartment he was in, stumbling right into Saylor’s bloody grasp. Forgetting his finger was on the trigger of his gun, Saylor instinctively flinched, shooting the man square in the forehead. He made a short noise of surprise. Saylor heard the man in the office gasp and yell, “Hey, you. I don't know who you are, but we got three minutes before they realize muscles-for-brains ain't coming back. Get this door open.”  
Saylor nodded, even though the man couldn’t see him, and made his way over to the terminal. He tried to look past the cloudy glass and into the room as he typed out possible passwords, but it was too dark.  
Finally he typed in the right password ( you sure as heck know it was ‘booty’) and the door popped open. The room was dark still while he walked in, and as the man spoke Saylor looked around to try and find him, coming face to face with two glowing eyes. The man looked nonchalant, pulling a lighter and cigarette out of his trench coat pocket—trench coat! And fedora! He really did stumble into a noir film. The man lit a cigarette as he spoke.  
“Ah, my knight-in-shining-armor. But the question is, why does he come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye?”  
Private eye. Detective. Now the pieces clicked together. Except for the pale grey skin, wires, and metal hand Saylor noticed when his eyes adjusted to the light.  
“What… are you?”  
The man—uh, robot, seemed to be caught by surprise. Clearly people in this day and age were just used to seeing robots talking and walking like normal people. He continued sternly.  
“Told you. I'm a detective. Look, I know the skin and the metal parts ain't comforting, but it's not important right now.”  
Saylor just nodded weakly while the man continued, smoking the cigarette and looking at Saylor’s arms. His expression was unreadable. He added onto his last statement.  
“Hope that's not going to be a problem, because there's not much I can do about it, if it is.”  
“Nononono!” Saylor said hurriedly, raising up his arms and stopping the detective before he could continue. “I just… uh… wow.”  
“Uh-huh…” The detective continued, obviously confused. “Well. Anyway, the only thing that matters is why you went to all this trouble to cut me loose.”  
Saylor struggled for a second, not wanting to say that he actually just stumbled in here on accident. He avoided the question. “You’re a detective, you say?”  
“Yeah. Detective Nick Valentine. Did I… forget to mention that?”  
“No!—I just… can you find a missing person for me, Mr. Valentine?”  
“Call me Nick. But you really want to do this here? With these human cockroaches around every corner?”  
“Yeah, yeah. Lead the way, Nick.”  
He smiled. “All right. Let's move fast. Follow me.”


	3. 3 (I'm so creative with naming things I know)

The detective talked quietly as they walked. He was stern but kind and funny. Saylor almost forgot he was a robot until he would turn a corner and Saylor could see his glowing eyes and opened neck.   
“I've been cooped up in here for weeks. Nice man asked me to find his kid. Really missed her. But it turns out the runaway daughter I came here to find wasn't kidnapped. She's Skinny Malone's new flame, and she's got a mean streak.” He chuckled. “She knocked me out cold with a swing right upside the head from her baseball bat.”  
Saylor made a noise of acknowledgement. They reached the third stairwell since they left only thirty seconds ago.  
“More stairs? Who built this damn Vault, a fitness instructor?”  
They fought groups of two or three triggermen each time they chanced upon a crowd of ‘em. It was a lot harder to fight them when every loud noise made Saylor flinch. Remind him of his son. He’d tap Nick’s shoulder to get his attention and Nick would respond with various statements;’ I know you have a case you want solved, but underground and surrounded is not the best place to talk.’ Or ‘You help me get out of here, and then I'll help you.’ Or, ‘Let’s keep moving. We’ll talk once we’re out.’  
They turned another corner.  
“Malone's crew here used to be small time, muscled out of the old neighborhood by bigger players. Until they found this place. Don't know what happened to the previous owners, but they're not exactly around to charge rent. An empty vault. Perfect hideou… Hold up! I hear some of them coming.”  
A man walked around the corner in a nice, clean suit. He carried a submachine gun with him, but he didn’t even have a chance to raise it before Saylor short him in the head and he fell to the floor with a thump, dead.   
“Nice one, kid.”   
Finally they made it to a place that was apparently significant, because Nick stopped and crouched under a terminal. He spoke in a whisper:  
“Skinny Malone and the rest of his boys are waiting for us, somewhere. The name's, uh, ironic, but don't let that fool you. He's dangerous.”  
Saylor nodded and tightened his fingers around his gun. Nick reached his arm up and grabbed the door handle with his metal hand, the metal bits and wires looking like some alien, exposed finger bones. He cursed when the door wouldn’t move. He turned around to face it and cursed again when he inspected the handle.  
“This door's on the fritz. Let me see if I can get it open...”  
He stood up and began typing on the terminal’s keyboard, green letters lighting his face in a sickly shade. Saylor just stared at Nick’s glowing eyes while the man clicked away.  
“Not much of a talker, are ya?”  
Saylor quickly moved his eyes away and slightly blushed when Nick caught him staring. He chuckled as Saylor stayed silent. Something on the terminal clicked when he hit the enter key. Nick looked at it.  
“Almost got it... there we are.” Some part of the inner mechanics of the door clicked. “Hell of a lot easier to do when the lock isn't on the other side.”  
Gruff voices were coming from inside the room. Saylor looked through the door and all he could see were crates stacked onto shelves. Haphazardly laid boxes labeled ‘Vault-Tec’ littered the floor. Did Nick take him all the way here to fight a boss battle in a storage closet?  
“Nice and quiet. You keep this up, you'll make a name for yourself. Not a good name, mind you, but who cares?” Nick said, voice dripping with sarcasm.  
Saylor turned to look him in the eyes and said defiantly, “I believe it was you who said ‘let’s talk once we’re out of here.’ How are we gonna go about this, anyway?”  
Nick shrugged. “Up to you, doll.”  
Saylor groaned. Nick laughed. “Just tryin to get you talkin more. Got a nice voice.”  
Ignoring Nick and answering his previous question, Saylor said,”Hows’about we go in guns blazing. Won’t know what hit them.”  
“Hard and loud, huh? Well, it gets the job done. Too bad for whoever cleans up the floors...”   
They ran through the door, guns ready. Skinny and his men didn’t notice them approach. There was a woman in a blue dress that held a blood stained baseball bat in one hand and in the other she was holding onto the shoulder of a very, very, VERY large man meticulously dressed in a tuxedo and fedora. Behind them was a familiar vault door, the yellow numbers plastered to it saying ‘114’. Saylor tried not to look at it. To his right, Nick aimed for Skinny’s head, but then the girl yelled and pointed her bat at them, startling Nick. His finger pulled the trigger and blood gushed out of the head of a triggerman next to Skinny.  
Saylor heard a deep yell of surprise. Nick stood up, still holding his gun, and walked further into the room where the crew could see them. So much for going in ‘guns blazing’. Saylor caught up with Nick inside the room.  
Skinny was wiping blood and gore from the arm of his suit coat.   
“Nicky? What're you doin'? You come into my house. Shoot up my guys. You have any idea how much this is gonna set me back?”  
“I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your two-timing dame, Skinny. You ought to tell her to write home more often.” Nick replied vehemently.  
A triggerman spoke up. Her gun was aimed at Nick. “I told you we should've just killed him, but then you had to get all sentimental! All that stupid crap about the "old times."   
“You and Nick know each other?” Saylor said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him but Skinny, who chuckled amusedly.  
“This troublemaker here used to be a real headache back in the day. Before we got kicked out of the old neighborhood.”  
Nick didn’t seem to share his ‘friend’s’ cheery attitude. Saylor tried to change the subject.  
“What's the deal with you people and Nick, anyway?”  
Nick answered that one for him. “Darla's a runaway. Her father wanted me to bring her back home. Turns out she skipped town to be with my old pal, Skinny Malone. Mob boss. Never thought he'd manage to scrape together a big enough crew to take over a Vault. Guess life's full of surprises.”  
Skinny seemed annoyed at Nick’s comment. “Hey, who's running this show, here? You got something to say, say it to me.”   
Saylor rapidly fit the pieces together in his head, trying to find the one thing to say to avoid a fight and let them all without any bloodshed. He looked to Darla and spoke in his nicest voice.   
“Darla, you don’t have to stay here with him. Come with us. We’ll take you back home where you want to be.”  
She snorted. “I ain’t takin no advice from a man with blood up his arms and fingers.”  
“Darla, listen to me. You have a home to go back to. You don't want to throw your life away with these thugs.”  
The woman’s demeanor faltered, but Skinny grabbed her wrist and she spoke with confidence.   
“Don't you try to confuse me!”  
“Skinny's no good for you, Darla. You really think he’s the kinda guy you can trust? Go back home and live the life you want. Your family misses you, Darla.”  
This time the woman seemed to crumble from inside, all of her barriers breaking down as she moved her wrist from Skinny’s grasp. The man looked heartbroken. “I... I... You're right! What am I doing? I've gotten all mixed up!”  
“Darla? Wh-where are you goin'?”  
Darla dropped the bat from her hands and the sound of falling wood on the stone floor echoed through the small area. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest, shoulders outward. “Home, Skinny! Where I should have been all this time. This is goodbye for us.”  
Darla went to the control panel (which Saylor also tried not to think about) and pulled something out, plugging it in. The gigantic metal door rolled to one side, but too slowly. Skinny grabbed Darla by the waist and, after a half second moral argument in his head, set the muzzle of his gun on top of her black locks. The Darla struggled, trying in vain to get out of his grasp.  
Without thinking, Saylor shot Skinny in the arm. The man dropped his gun with a scream, and Darla fell back against the wall. Skinny was cursing and clutching his arm tightly. Bright red blood flowed from between his fingers. It dripped onto the ground into a small puddle. Saylor stared at it.  
“Hey, kid!”  
Saylor snapped back to reality at Nick’s call. Triggermen in fancy suits were surrounding him, reading their submachine guns. He shot each of them in rapid fire. All of the men doubled over in pain. Saylor was filled with adrenaline and felt shaky but really, really perceptive. He ran over to the woman and politely grabbed Darla’s hand in his own. She clung to him while he helped kill the men surrounding Nick. The detective gave him a thankful glance, then looked over at Skinny, who was still clutching his arm in the center of the room. Skinny stared back. There was a long silence.  
“You gonna say somethin’, or what?”  
Nick raised his polymer arm, gun in hand. “Pick up your gun and let’s fight this out fair and square.”  
Skinny’s gun was lying on the ground at his feet. He spit on it and kicked it towards Nick. Wheezing, he said,” You smug, overconfident ass... Agh! You ain’t gonna fight me in a fair battle if I can’t use one of my arms. Just shoot me, and make it quick. I haven’t got all day.”  
Nick sighed. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Time for the hard goodbye, Skinny.”  
The bullet whizzed through the air silently, breaking through Skinny’s head, then gliding out the back. His scream caught in his throat. He slumped onto the ground, blood making interesting rivers through the cracks in the tiles. Darla was crying against Saylor’s shoulder.  
Nick watched Skinny’s body almost like he was expecting it to raise from the dead and shoot him. After a pause, he exhaled and looked to Darla, then Saylor.   
“Let’s get out of here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first work on AO3. Saylor running from the Swan is based on a fic I read on here once that I can't find now. If you find it, please put the title in the comments! Thanks!


End file.
